


Distractions

by maddienole



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hiding sickness, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Sickfic, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddienole/pseuds/maddienole
Summary: It started small - a twinge at the back of the throat, an occasional cough, a sniffle.Then came the chills, the shivering and the aches. Tim knew he was sick, undoubtedly so. But when you dedicate your life to fighting crime and trying to make the world a better place, one simply doesn't have time for such distractions. Bruce doesn't even have to know.(And he's fine. Really, he is.)
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 183





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally going to be written for Febuwump day 13 "Hiding an Injury" but my conscience got the better of me and I decided to first update my other fics before starting on this one. 
> 
> I'm not sure if this takes place in any canon continuity, though to be fair I haven't really been keeping up with what exactly is going on with the DC timeline since rebirth 😅
> 
> Anyhow, this is my first fic for this fandom and I hope you guys enjoy!

He woke up with a headache. Now this wasn't _unusual_ , per say. Nor was it entirely uncommon given the nature of his after-school activities.

But Tim was not a stupid child by any means, and had the capacity to recognize that the pressure on his skull did not originate from exposure to criminal activity or lack of sleep.

(Or a less than stellar diet. Or stress. But these are things that Bruce didn't need to be aware of.)

No. His head just... _hurt_. Not badly, but one of those low-grade aches that served nothing more than to inconvenience. To disrupt. So Tim decided to do what he would normally do under such circumstances - ignore it and hope it goes away. Preferably sooner rather than later.

He forces himself out of bed, fumbling around for his school clothes. He feels sluggish in a way that he didn't like, the persistent lethargy that plagued every movement was not a good sign for the state of his health.

But he would never admit to being sick, not yet. It was too early to make such a call. And he _did_ go to bed a bit later than usual last night (or was it this morning?) and the present listlessness may just be his body clock trying to catch up.

(...was it getting hot in here?)

He dresses himself as best he could, grabbing a piece of rapidly-cooling toast off of the kitchen island and waving to Alfred as he steps through the door.

School was a dull affair - tedious at best and arduous at the worst. The work itself wasn't difficult, it never had been for him. It was...the _people_. The atmosphere. And sure, Tim knew that he needed to socialize, interaction with people his own age - _normal people, that is_ \- was good for him in the long run. But he then thinks of all that is wrong in the world. He thinks of the violence and thefts and murders - the things he could be doing to help instead of eating jelly sandwiches in the cafeteria and talking about minor inconveniences that had no bearing on the state of society outside of the school's corridors.

School was nothing more than a distraction. A _welcome_ one at times, but still a distraction.

He could feel a twinge in the back of his throat by the end of first period. Nothing major, but enough to make him sink lower in his chair and yearn for the bell to relieve him from this unceremonious imprisonment. By second period it hurts to swallow. He grabs for his water bottle buried somewhere in bottom of his backpack. It had probably been there for months - the liquid was a bit _too_ warm as it ran down his throat. Not to mention the sticky residue the bottle itself left on his fingers, perhaps a sign that he should actually clean out his backpack once in a while.

The cafeteria wasn't any better, his head still pounded with a vengeance and the simple act of swallowing felt like he was being stabbed in the back of the throat.

No. He was not sick. He _couldn't_ be sick, there simply wasn't time. It was just...allergies. The weather was changing rapidly and it was aggravating his sinuses. Nothing more.

His was coughing by sixth period. Not the small coughs, mind you. Not the type when you have when you improperly swallow food or inhale too much smoke. These ones _hurt_ \- every one reverberating through his entire body. He's tries stifling it at first, but the crook of his elbow could only do so much to smother the sound. Several moments pass in dreadful anticipation, the teacher too old - _or too unconcerned_ \- to notice his plight as she continues to scribble derivatives on the whiteboard. But his classmates would throw him looks of concern or annoyance as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

The bathroom it was. Tim clutches his hall pass as tight as he could in his sweaty fingers, stumbling through the hallway as his legs struggle to support his weight. It was possible that he _might_ be coming down with something, a cold or sniffle. He pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder and rubs the cold sink water on his face.

He doesn't like what he sees in the mirror. The sallow complexion with the baggy eyes, he has definitely had better days. He was...sick. Maybe not outwardly so if you were unaccustomed to his regular looks. But Alfred would notice. As would Bruce.

Tim brushes his dark and sweaty hair off his forehead with his fingers, as though it would make a difference in his ragged appearance. Everything about him seemed off, especially of late. At fifteen he was growing a bit _too_ fast - his arms and legs didn't seem like the right size when compared to his torso. He was skinnier that he would have liked, even with the hours and hours of training. He tries not to compare him to Bruce, or to Dick. He tries not to think about why they were so well-proportioned and muscular compared to him.

(They're _adults_ , of course they are going to be. They aren't growing anymore. He still is. Growing is what teenagers do, after all.)

He's coughing again. Deep and throaty and _painful_. He closed his eyes - _only briefly_ \- resting his forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror. There was only one more class after this. One more class before he could lie down.

He could tell Alfred that he had an essay to write. That he can't be bothered for a couple of hours.

(He can sleep for a bit. Sleep is supposed to make you feel better, right?)

Time passes in a haze, his eyes heavy and under threat of slipping closed as his seventh period English teacher rambles on about the works of Henry James. He slips on his jacket before deciding it was too hot and taking it off. Of course, after a minute passes - _then another_ \- he feels the familiar chills run through his body and the jacket was now on again.

The ring of the dismissal bell hurts his ears, sending another wave of pain that squeezes at his brain. Tim only vaguely recalls getting on and off the bus and entering Wayne Manner. He stumbles up the staircase, legs burning as his sweaty hands keep slipping from the railing.

Everything hurts.

His head, his stomach, his arms and legs. It was just now starting to hit him that whatever was afflicting him might just be worse than a common cold. Didn't that kid who sat next to him in history class come down with the flu? Matthew...what's-his-face? He'd been out for the last couple of days.

(Children were nothing more than disease-ridden petri-dishes. This is what he decided after spending a day volunteering at a day care in middle school. They play in dirt and sand and all types of different things. They don't wash their hands and don't understand why they should bother to in the first place.

Teenagers were no better.

Actually, they might be worse. Cleanliness is never in the forefront of their thoughts.)

Tim doesn't remember falling asleep, having felt as though he _just_ closed his eyes before being unceremoniously jolted back into consciousness by his phone's alarm. He mustn't sleep for too long and risk getting caught.

Alfred made some type of unidentifiable pasta concoction for dinner. Just the smell alone sent a bout of nausea through his stomach and up his throat. Tim tries not to retch, pushing the noodles around the plate in a half hearted effort to make it look like he was interested in the meal below him.

"Not hungry tonight, Master Tim?" Alfred asks, the edges of his lips pulled up in a smile - or was it a smirk? Bruce glances briefly at him, taking note of the mostly-full plate, before shifting his gaze back to the pile of paperwork laid out before him.

"Big lunch," Tim mumbles in return, focusing on the floor and hoping that Alfred wouldn't push it further.

It's not uncommon for there to be silence in the manor, but he didn't like _awkward_ silences. Not like there was now. He's thankful that he's not being questioned on his lack of appetite, but Tim is more than aware that neither of his companions would think to believe his lie.

By the grace of god, it was a slow night on the Gotham streets. He took a couple of decongestants that were stashed in the back of the medicine cabinet before going out, and was now able to breathe in a (mostly) proper manner. Of course, they weren't _pain_ killers, nor were they intended to help the jelly-like feeling in his legs that threatened to give out under his weight.

It wasn't all of his current infirmities that was giving Tim the most amount of difficulty tonight. It was trying to portray some semblance of normalcy in front of Bruce. He was _Robin_ \- he held in his hands a legacy to uphold, a legacy that could easily crumble under the perception of weakness.

(His chest was starting to hurt. A sudden tightness, like someone was squeezing at his ribcage. Even the simple act of inhaling was a battle.)

"You want to take that?" Bruce asks lightly, face aggravatingly impassive.

There's a robbery going on, a single goon in a ski mask at one of those twenty-four hour gas stations.

He nods in Bruce's direction, probably a bit _too_ slowly, before making his way down.

On a normal night this type of thing wouldn't be a problem. On a normal night he could take this idiot out in a matter of seconds.

This...was _not_ a normal night.

His leg buckles from beneath him before he could make his first blow. Something slams into his face and he finds himself getting quite friendly with the sidewalk. He wipes at his throbbing cheek to find his fingers covered in blood.

"You aren't so tough, are you bird-boy?" the masked idiot chuckles, cracking his knuckles in some incongruous display of superiority. Tim should first note that he was not intimidated by this man in the slightest - he's short and looks as though he's acquainted himself with one too many doughnuts. But he _did_ have a strong uppercut, something he had to find out the hard way. If there was any good coming out of this situation, it was that the pain from his bruising cheek served as a decent distraction from the pain just about everywhere else on his body.

And that would have to be good enough.

It takes a firm rope and a couple of well placed kicks before Tim has him subdued - _the process taking just a bit longer than usual_ \- though he does take satisfaction in the fact that this asshole's aggravating smile had disappeared during the fray.

The ride home is silent - more so than usual, that is. He could feel Bruce's eyes on him, no doubt the dark knight was about to question him on his less than stellar performance not an hour previous.

"You finish your homework?" he instead asks, hands keeping a tight grip on the steering wheel. He could feel Bruce's eyes on him - scanning his face, his eyes, his rapidly swelling cheek. Tim can't quite tell what his guardian is thinking, Bruce was never one to give away such feelings without purpose. He wonders if he is angry at him. He wonders if he is comparing him to Dick or perhaps even Jason.

The nausea grows.

"Yes," he responds, trying to stop his voice from shaking. He looks at the road in front of him, purposely not making eye contact.

(He's _fine_. He really is.)

"I'll be gone all day tomorrow," Bruce continues. "Two day conference about the merger for Wayne enterprises. Insisted it needed to be in-person."

Tim swallows thickly. "What about Gotham?"

"Nightwing will patrol in my absence. It's been quiet lately, I don't expect much trouble."

He blinks, resting his head against the window. The drugs were wearing off, he could _feel_ it. If Bruce noticed his lethargy (and Tim is sure he did), nothing was said on the matter. He appreciated it, in a way. Bruce was never one to pry in his personal life unless it was having an adverse effect on his health or schooling.

It's just a damn head cold (probably). It's _not_ a big deal. It wasn't like he was patrolling tomorrow, anyways. Bruce was a bit more cautious with him compared to the previous robins, given what happened to Jason. That meant not patrolling on his own, not quite yet.

(He would have done it himself anyways, regardless of what Bruce wanted. And Bruce _knew_ this, he would have to. Tim had gone out alone many times, and nothing major has happened. Yet.)

"Okay," he answers tonelessly, rubbing at his temples. There wasn't much in the way of conversation for the rest of the trip. Tim finds himself not minding at all.

He all but collapses when he returns to his bedroom. The armer is peeled quickly from his overheated body and he doesn't think to wash the sweat and blood off.

And he just...lies there, skirting the realm of the unconscious but never quite in its clutches. Time is fuzzy, making it difficult to determine how much has passed. He tries sitting up, but the sudden movement causes his stomach to summersault within him.

Now he's running. _Sprinting_. The bathroom isn't far, but it certainly feels like it is when your legs consist of jello and fail in supporting your body weight. The sensation in his stomach turns volatile and he's on his hands and knees as its contents are expelled into the toilet below. The bile burns his mouth - in fact, everything feels like it is burning.

There was not a single part of his body that didn't hurt.

Tim sinks to the floor, still covered in sweat and dirt and now-dried blood. He simply doesn't have the energy to move another inch, and frankly doesn't want to, either. There is nothing _wrong_ with bathroom floors, it is cool to the touch and provide relief to his overheating skin.

And he finds himself drifting again.

He thinks of school and all the work he has yet to do. He thinks of Young Justice - his team. His _friends._ He thinks of Bruce and Alfred and Dick.

He thinks of his parents.

And the tears start bubbling in his eyes, no matter how hard he tries to stop them. He's being pathetic - curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor crying about things outside of his control. He's not a child anymore, he can't afford to be emotional about such things.

Everything hurts.

Tim closes his eyes, resting his head on the side of the tub. He continues to drift, his body not allowing him to fully escape into slumber. That would be too easy, wouldn't it?

Time passes, but his mind is too scrambled to make sense of it. He can hear things, but isn't sure if that is just a side effect of the fever raging through him.

He hears steps - shoes pounding against the floor. The creaking of wooden planks. The sound of a knock. The squeaking of door hinges.

And he drifts.

He hears voices - no, just one voice. A _familiar_ voice.

" _Tim?"_

Was he hallucinating? Was it dehydration? All it took was one stomach bug and now he's losing whatever remains of his sanity.

Someone was _touching_ him - somewhere in the back of his conscious mind, he can feel another living, breathing body in close proximity to his. Words are being said that he can't quite make out.

And...and...was he being lifted? No, _carried_. By a strong pair of arms. Tim presses his face against the larger person's chest and tries to suppress the feeling of nausea. Of the pain that flares with every jostling step forward.

And he drifts.

When he opens his eyes again, the world is nothing more than a dark blur. He tries to move but finds that he can't. He is on something soft, something _familiar_.

Bed. _His_ bed, to be exact.

"How's the head?"

Was someone...talking to him?

Against his body's protests, he turns. Everything is a bit too blurry for him to make out, but there was a human-esque figure in the corner of the room. A _Bruce_ -esque figure.

_Shit._

"'m fine," he says - or _slurs_ , more like. His mouth is incredibly dry, his tongue painfully large. He was seeing spots.

A moment of silence passes, and he could hear movement in the room. He blinks and suddenly Bruce is sitting next to him, arm wrapped around his back.

"Sit up," he instructs gently.

Tim mumbles something that was supposed to come out as "can't" but was probably more akin to gibberish. He swore Bruce rolled his eyes in response, but perhaps that was just another figment of his addled brain.

He eventually finds himself propped up against the headrest (undoubtably with the help of arms stronger than his own), and struggles keeping his eyes open. He can't feel the pain anymore, not really. Everything was just...numb. Numb and blurry.

" _Drink."_

Tim blinks again and there is a cup in his face.

"What 'isit?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow, looking as though he was trying hard not to smile.

"Medication," he responds simply. "Since you don't seem to find the need to take any yourself."

Tim takes the cup, downing its contents with (relative) ease. Maybe it was a good thing he lost his sense of taste - he doubted that whatever he just consumed would have a flavor to his liking.

"Thank you," he murmurs in return, placing the cup down on the nightstand. He rubs at his eyes.

Another silent moment. Tim can feel the drowsiness take root inside of him, beckoning him into the clutches of slumber.

Bruce exhales beside him, shifting his position - if only slightly.

"Next time..." he starts, sounding uncharacteristically tired, "...don't fight if you are incapacitated by an illness. It is not worth the risk of injury."

"I still _beat_ him..."

"Tim," Bruce interrupts firmly. There is something that passes through his gaze that he can't quite comprehend. "You don't have to prove yourself to me. Not like that. You could have gotten badly hurt."

He could feel the tears in his eyes, threatening to escape. "I'm...sorry," he sputters, trying not to stumble on his words.

Bruce sighs, rubbing his temples. "I know," he says, turning his gaze towards the window. There was a far-away look in his eyes, as though he was looking at something only he can see. "Go to sleep," he finally says. "I'll inform the school that you'll be out tomorrow."

Tim tries stifling a yawn but fails almost immediately. His bed is warm, his eyelids heavy. It doesn't take long for them to close once again as the medication makes its way through his body.

"You aren't Dick," Bruce whispers. "You aren't Jason. You are _you_ , Tim. You are Robin. Don't ever forget that."

Tim finally drifts off to sleep - _a proper sleep_ \- with the feeling of fingers running through his hair and a smile tugging at his lips.


End file.
